if by the influence
of some evil destiny. Vigorous resolutions for the future warred with
fears lest that they were made too late, and he sat with closed eyes and
compressed lips, silent and sunk in meditation.

Leaving them, therefore, to pursue a journey on which their
companionship could scarcely afford much pleasure to the reader, let
us turn to one who, whatever his other defects, rarely threw away the
moments of his life on unavailing regrets: this was Mr. Linton. If he
was greatly disappointed by the information he gleaned when overhearing
the conversation between Cashel and the doctor, he did not suffer his
anger either to turn him from his path, or distract him from his settled
purpose.

"To-day for ambition!" said he, "to-morrow revenge!"

Too well accustomed to obstacles to be easily thwarted, he recognized
life as a struggle wherein the combatant should never put off his armor.

"She must and shall accept me as her husband; on that I am determined. A
great game, and a glorious stake, shall not be foiled for a silly girl's
humor. Were she less high-flown in her notions, and with more of
the 'world' about her, I might satisfy her scruples, that, of her
affections--her heart, as she would call it--there is no question here.
_Je suis bon prince_,--I never coerce my liege's loyalty. As to the
old man, his dotage takes the form of intrepidity, so that it might
be unsafe to use menace with him. The occasion must suggest the proper
tactic."

And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the
cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the
lover's ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye
that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph.

While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege
of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage
interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen
from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily
on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs
of a sick man.

Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried
to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy
eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed
how sad was the spirit from which they came.

"I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,"
said her grandfat